


Dancing Away With My Heart

by delilahbelle



Category: Glee
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:13:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23581411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delilahbelle/pseuds/delilahbelle
Summary: It's a more magical night than Mercedes could have hoped for.Prom 2.20 and Samcedes' first three dates.
Relationships: Sam Evans/Mercedes Jones
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	1. hoping that song would never be over

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, I'm finally writing a Glee fic. Because I fell down this rabbit hole AGAIN. I haven't written anything in over a year so I feel the need to warn you this is more a writing exercise than anything else. (Because I'm still bitter about them.) I couldn't write last year because I was: helping my sister move into her new apartment, which resulted in an accident that broke my arm, and then I was looking for a job. But since I'm relieved of looking for a job right this second, I wrote instead. Hope you enjoy it! 
> 
> Story and chapter title from Lady Antebellum's Dancin' Away With My Heart. Because I wanted more country music on the show. Especially from Sam.

She wonders, at first, if Rachel put Sam up to it. It would be like her in her more generous moods (the ones that aren’t quite truly generous, the way she can be sometimes) Mercedes thinks, well-meaning but ultimately hurtful. But then again, that would mean Rachel was in one of her generous moods where she remembered other people existed, and given how attached she is to Jesse right now, Mercedes would bet that Rachel didn’t think to tell Sam anything. After all, she only sent a group text with a little smiley face, saying, _I have a date!_ to tell them she was abandoning their plans.

Mercedes should have let Sam out of their arrangement right then and there. Sam’s nice, Sam’s always nice, but they’ve spoken maybe two a month during the whole school year, and it’s usually about glee or religion. So when Sam comes over and tells she’s beautiful and asks her to dance… she thinks, _if Rachel didn’t say anything, then he’s just being nice. Because he_ is _nice_. And it stings, just a little, because she used to think she was better than that, better than waiting around for a pity dance from a guy who can get dates with cheerleaders. But, at this high school at least, she isn’t so she takes his hand.

She expects him to dance with her once, maybe twice, and leave her alone for the rest of the night. Well, not alone. He’s too nice for that. Maybe he’ll just check in with her every once in a while in between their turns on stage and fending off Mindy from the cheerleaders, who broke up with her boyfriend in an epic fight in the middle of the hallway yesterday and has since turned her attentions to Sam. (Because he’s Santana’s ex, and she has some sort of weird rivalry with Santana that Mercedes doesn’t understand, mostly because Santana doesn’t seem to remember Mindy exists and not in that way where she’s pretending just to piss Mindy off. Mercedes is pretty sure Santana genuinely never thinks of Mindy.) 

He sat with Mercedes for a few minutes at the beginning before the dancing started in earnest, sharing lukewarm pigs in blanket and tiny meatballs with her as they chatted about their upcoming performances. There isn’t much to say; they’d finalized the list the first day they knew about it. They talk about his family for all of three minutes—it’s not like circumstances have changed in the couple days ago since she had taken some food and rustled up some clothes for his siblings because they had only a few outfits and were growing fast. He asks about her family. She tells him her aunt is visiting next week. She’s not happy about it, because her aunt takes it as a failure that Mercedes doesn’t have a boyfriend, not that she tells him that. Although there’s one like that in every family in her experience. Maybe he’d understand. 

Maybe he’d think she was pathetic.

Rachel’s slow song is almost over by the time they’re on the dance floor and Mercedes is glad not to be held so close to him. He’s so damn earnest, looking into her eyes and smiling at her like he’s happy to be there, and she wants to believe it so badly it hurts. In the last fours hours, she’d managed to catch a crush. He’d come over earlier than Rachel and made polite small talk with her parents that she only caught snippets of as she got ready. She told herself she wouldn’t eavesdrop but she couldn’t help it; she’s nosy. She learned more about him in those twenty minutes than she had in the entire school year. Not that that’s shocking. Her parents have a way of putting people at ease. They aren’t the judgmental sort, and they’d been so happy she was going to prom after all. She told them he was just a friend, that neither of them had dates and they had to go anyway to perform, and he was just doing her a favor. And the guy who dated both Quinn and Santana probably wouldn’t be interested in her—which she said out loud accidentally. “What’s wrong with you?” her mother asked, and Mercedes didn’t have an answer her mother would accept.

And to be fair, it’s not like Sam ever seemed to think she looked bad. When the Sadie Hawkins dance rolled around, he asked her why she wasn’t going. She didn’t want to be rejected, like she had been her freshman year, and he’d caught her at a weak enough moment that she admitted that she wasn’t up to being told she wasn’t pretty enough. And Sam had just looked at her and said, “I think you’re pretty. That guy was just an asshole.” And maybe it wasn’t the compliment she would have hope to receive (and ideally it would have been from a guy she liked), but no one with the potential to ever be attracted to her ever called her pretty before so it lighted a little warmth in her chest for the rest of the week.

She still didn’t ask anyone though. It wasn’t that big of a spark.

–

Another slow song comes on. Quinn and Santana, singing A Moment Like This. Mercedes starts because that means she’s been dancing with Sam for an hour, minus the times one of them took the stage. Sam automatically slips one arm around her waist, and she tries not to show any hesitation as she takes his other hand and steps closer. Slow dancing is quiet and intimate, and it should ideally be done with someone you love. Except no one has ever loved her. Puck dated her for social clout. For all of a day. No one else had shown an interest in her. 

And tonight, she wanted Sam to show interest. His eyes are warm and soft, crinkling with a smile as he gazes down on her. “You really do look beautiful tonight,” he says so quietly she can only be sure he really said anything by the movement of his mouth and the reverberation of his chest where she presses against him.

“It’s the dim lighting,” she jokes, but it falls flat.

He starts. Blinks. “It’s really not.” Mercedes can sense his thoughts in his tone. The hesitation. The awkwardness. The confusion. Maybe he really thinks she’s attractive. Maybe he thinks her self-deprecation is awful. Maybe the self-deprecation just makes him feel guilty.

(Or maybe he’s just nice.)

She didn’t think that poorly of herself on a daily basis, but nights like these are the worst. It’s junior prom, and she’s taking a sophomore with a Letterman jacket as a pity date. Well, it could be worse. Jacob Ben Israel could have been her pity date. If she let him stare at her breasts, he’d go along with it. He wouldn’t have danced with her though. Kurt would’ve probably dragged her out for a dance and made Blaine dance with her too. Quinn might’ve too. But most of her night would have been spent alone.

And technically, _she’s_ supposed to be _Sam’s_ pity date. It just doesn’t feel that way at all. Sam could have gone stag and danced with the string of skinny white girls who think he’s cute and have already gone through the rest of the football team already. She could have gone stag and, in between sets, stood in the corner nursing a plate of lukewarm food and hoping Puck spiked the punch. Someone might have come over and dragged her to the dance floor, Puck might have kept her company (but probably not danced with her, or with anyone else if he could help it), Rachel might’ve shoved Jesse at her. Maybe Artie would have pseudo-danced with her, like he already had once tonight, and maybe Brittany would have spun her around. Probably Mike and Tina would have too, if they managed to pull their eyes away from each other long enough to notice anyone else. (They’re currently making out in the corner while Coach Sylvester is distracted so maybe they wouldn’t have really noticed her at all).

But no one would have asked her to dance during a slow song, holding her close and smiling down at her. And that would have made her feel small and unattractive and unwanted. And she knows this viscerally. So when Sam pulls her closer, she fights the urge to nestle into his shoulder. He’s never shown an interest in her, so he’s only being nice. Maybe he really does think she looks pretty tonight, maybe he thinks of her as pretty in general, but it doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. 

But tonight…

She’s happy tonight or she will be as soon as she lets it all go. It could be magical and enchanting and perfect if she lets it. So she smiles at him, thanks him, and lets herself lay her head against his shoulder. He presses his cheek to the top of her head, and a hazy, heavy warmth engulfs her..

–

She can’t keep the fantasy that they’re actually here together from entering her mind but she also can’t keep it going. Especially when Sam abandons her—reluctantly, her traitorous imagination suggests—and goes to Rachel after Jesse is kicked out. Mercedes sits down next to her and watches as Sam grins boyishly and says, “It looks like I’m your date after all,” and Rachel gratefully takes his hand.

He dances with Quinn after Rachel then gets caught by Mindy on the next song and rescued by Tina before the end, and spins around with Brittany until he’s visibly dizzy and passes her off to Mike. He twirls Santana around (further proof he’s nice since Santana didn’t bother to dump him before going off with someone new just last week). He goes back to Rachel and Quinn briefly then heads to the stage.

She only dances once in that time with Quinn, who doesn’t want to talk anymore than Mercedes does, but then Sam climbs onto the stage with some of the other boys and Quinn turns to her, leads her to a table, and says, “You’re crushing hard.”

“It’s only for tonight. I haven’t had this much attention from a guy before.” It’s not news to Quinn; they talked about this when they were living together last year. “He’s nice.”

“He is.” Quinn’s nod make her earrings sparkle in the light. “Honestly, that’s eighty percent of the reason I went out with him.”

“And the other twenty?”

“He’s hot.”

Mercedes is startled by her own laugh.

Quinn smiles serenely, looking very much like the princess in a film that Mercedes loved as a child and wanted to be when she grew up before that dream got burst by the string of Barbie lookalikes she always saw. “You could ask him out, you know.”

Mercedes swears she can hear an audible pop as the bubble of languid warmth pops. What will happen if she asks Sam out? He’ll says no probably, using financial issues as an excuse, but it would very likely be an excuse. He won’t want to hurt her feelings. He won’t want to make things awkward. But the chances of him feeling the same way…

A clink draws her attention. Sam, putting down drinks in front of her and Quinn. Quinn’s pretty smile shining as she thanks him. Mercedes doesn’t have that nice of a smile but she murmurs her own thanks. He pulls up the chair next to her, and she tells herself not to make anything of it. He just doesn’t want to sit next to his ex-girlfriend. It’s not like he’s dying to sit next to her.

“Mercedes was saying how wonderful of a date you are,” Quinn says oh-so-helpfully. 

A bashful smile from him. “Well, I have a wonderful date to inspire me.”

Mercedes doesn’t blush. She _doesn’t_. (No one can tell in the lighting. That’s the same thing as not doing it, right?). “You’re ridiculous.”

Quinn is grinning wildly now, no pretty sereneness in sight. Mercedes has a dozen reasons not to trust that smile. “I have to perform,” she says sweetly. “I know you love this song, Mercedes. I hope I do it justice.”

Quinn will be singing Bless the Broken Road by the Rascal Flatts. A song she knows Sam suggested they sing. Mercedes had been listening to it nonstop for the last three days since the suggestion, having never listened much to country music before. Quinn only knew because she’d stopped by to pick up a bag of her things Mercedes’s mom found during her spring cleaning. Quinn had tried to be thorough when she moved out but little things were left behind—a notebook, a sparkly pink gel pen, a tube of pale pink lipstick, a tube of lavender hand lotion, a pair of pom-pom earrings. Mercedes had been the only home when she’d come over. The song played on a loop the entire time, and Quinn hadn’t mentioned it once, even though she stayed long enough to have some decaf coffee and freshly baked cookies. 

Sam is smiling earnestly and widely at Mercedes. “Want to dance?”

She takes his hand. All three of them stand at the same time, and Mercedes loops her arm around Quinn’s waist under the pretense of a hug and hisses, “Just because you can’t figure out your love life doesn’t mean mess with mine.”

Quinn only winces a little then she whispers brightly, “You don’t have one,” and walks off to the stage.

–

Sam smells like aftershave. It’s probably his dad’s, and she’s not sure if he’s wearing it or if the suit just smells like it. It smells good on Sam though, smoky and deep with a hint of sweetness and spice. Mercedes doesn’t want to get weird, but she can’t help but snuggle closer. He tightens his arms around her. They’re not really moving, barely swaying even, and he’s tucked tight around her. This is the sort of behavior that makes her fantasize about things that will never happen, but how is she supposed to stop it? When she doesn’t even want it to stop?

She can feel him easily pressed this close, the rise and fall of his breath, the way his muscles shift during their barely-there movement, the shift of his legs. His feet are awfully close to hers; she’s afraid she’s going to embarrass herself by stepping on them. His hair is brushing her cheek with the angle of his head. She can feel the bolo tie tickling the tops of her breasts. She’s not terribly ticklish so it doesn’t bother her, except that means he’s so close and the drowsy glow is back in full force. She can feel it in the pit of her stomach—butterflies dancing in a ball of gauzy happiness. Everything feels like it has a film on it. The music isn’t too loud anymore, and the press of bodies isn’t making her thirsty with heat, the sequins of her dress aren’t scratching at her, the press of his fingers on her back isn’t almost too hard, like he’s trying to pull her even closer.

The music ends as gently as it started, and Sam doesn’t immediately move away even as his arms loosen around her. His smile is warm and tender. “Thank you.”

“For what?” she says, struck dumb by the sweetness in his eyes.

“I always wanted to dance with an amazing girl to this song.”

–

She doesn’t meet up with him for a long time after that. He’s on stage again. There’s the announcement of the Prom King and Queen, and their friends spend several minutes debating chasing after Kurt or leaving it to Blaine. Then Mercedes is singing two songs in a row. Including a slow one. When she agreed, she didn’t think she’d be dancing with anyone on slow songs. She didn’t think Sam would dance with her on any of them, not even one out of pity. But now she wishes she could step back into his arms. He’s sitting this one out. He’s at one of the tables with Kurt and Blaine, although he really isn’t talking to either of them. His eyes are on the stage. On her. Mercedes tries not to blush. It doesn’t mean anything. Why would it? He’s just nice—

Except...

Her friends aren’t always nice, but they’ve been supportive of each other through their performances. That doesn’t mean they’re staring at her with an intensity that seems out of place for a date of spares.

She smiles at him, and his answering smile is soft and private.

–

She’s looking forward to taking prom photos with Sam, but she forgets about Rachel. Jesse is gone, obviously she won’t be taking pictures with him. Still, Mercedes is shocked when Rachel comes up to them with a smile and says, “There are my dates.” 

Right. Not a real date. The drowsy glow is extinguished by what feels like a midwinter’s storm. 

Sam’s fingers brush against Mercedes’s, but he turns to Rachel. “Ready to have your picture taken?”

“Always.”

“Dumb question,” Mercedes tells him. “She’s always ready for attention.”

Rachel doesn’t even get offended. “I’m a star.” She fluffs her ponytail and walks ahead of them.

–

They drop Rachel off first. Mercedes waits until the Berrys’ door swings shut to take down her hair. Her head has been hurting for the last hour but that pleasant glow kept it mostly at bay. Fifteen minutes in a car with Rachel Berry brought it all back. And jealousy took care of the rest—Sam kissed Rachel’s cheek as he said goodnight. Clenching your jaw isn’t good for a headache.

The car rolls up into Mercedes’s driveway. She doesn’t make an immediate move to get out. She wants to say something flirty but that’s never been her strong point. “Thanks for tonight,” she settles. “It was great.”

“It was,” he agrees. “You know what would have made it better?”

“No Rachel?” The blush of mortification is instantaneous. Sam’s so nice. And she’s… not. Apparently.

Sam bites his bottom lip. Her gaze is intent on the motion without meaning to be, so she notices when his lips quirk to one side in amusement. So he’s capable of a little bit of malice after all. He’d have to be, she supposes, to put up with the glee club. “I wasn’t gonna say that,” he says, but he’s full-on grinning. “I was going to say if we weren’t surrounded by people.”

“Well, then, maybe we should do it privately next time.”

His expression falls a little and he breathes in deeply. Mercedes braces herself for the rejection but all he says is, “I’m not sure where we can go. I don’t have any money.”

Not an outright rejection. The vise grip on her chest loosens, and she didn’t even know it was there. 

She wants to say that this is the twenty first century and she can pay, but she’s afraid that Sam will take that as charity. And maybe as an insult. Before she can remember her parents will kill her if they find out, she blurts out, “If we go somewhere, we won’t be alone. My parents will be out tomorrow night. I can cook.” She’s a decent cook but doesn’t enjoy it but that’s not important. She’ll suck it up for a chance to see him. “I make a mean mac and cheese.” She winces internally as soon as the words come out of her. Chances are, those muscles mean he doesn’t eat things like that.

But before she can find some other, healthier food to blurt out, he asks, “Homemade?”

“Everything but the pasta. That’s an experiment I will never repeat.”

“Do I get to hear that story?”

“Maybe on the third date,” she says without thinking. She glances nervously at him, wondering what he thinks of that.

But he’s all smiles. He leans forward and presses a kiss to her cheek, lingering and tender (a lot sweeter than the perfunctory kiss he gave Rachel, a little triumphant voice whispers deep in her mind). She tilts her face in invitation, and he accepts it with another lingering kiss on her lips. “I look forward to it,” he says quietly, but she barely hears him, already trying to drag him down for another kiss. But he nudges her nose with his and glances over where her mother is opening the door. Mercedes admits to herself there won’t be anymore kisses tonight. She squeezes his hand. “Tomorrow? Six?”

“I don’t get off work ‘til then,” he says regretfully.

“Come by after,” she tells him. He nods, and she squeezes his hand and floats inside.


	2. a real fine place to start

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!
> 
> (title is a song by sara evans but the lyrics don't really have anything to do with this)

Good timing is on Mercedes’s side the next day. Good timing for her—not for Mrs. Russell, who is having some sort of crisis that isn’t considered appropriate for teenage eyes. Her parents are cloistered in the living room with the sobbing woman all afternoon, which gives Mercedes enough time to run off to the grocery store without having to explain anything. She makes lunch for them as an excuse to be in the kitchen.

She pulls out the grill pan and puts some chicken thighs on. Mrs. Russell doesn’t eat carbs ( _neither does Sam_ , a nasty little voice reminds her. Finn told Kurt about Sam’s restrictive diet. Mercedes doesn’t understand it, not really. But maybe that’s why she’s never been skinny. It doesn’t matter; he said he was looking forward to homemade mac and cheese. He _said_. She’s not going to second guess herself). She adds some vegetables to the grill and when it’s all done, she carts it over to the living room and gets started on the brownies her mom asked her to make since she’s busy.

While the brownies are baking, Mercedes assembles a salad of spinach, strawberries, chicken, and the remaining zucchini. She has enough time to make lemonade too, her aunt’s recipe, with orange blossom water and fresh mint and slices of orange floating in it.

She’s putting in too much effort, she knows. The night before had been so glossy, like a Hollywood film. She could clearly herself in a nice dress (not the one she bought for six dollars at a thrift shop), dancing with a handsome leading man. And she wanted that feeling back. When she’d woken this morning, everything had felt more like a horror film than a romantic comedy. She asked a boy out. She never did that. Not anymore. No one liked her. What was the point? She didn’t need another embarrassing moment. She had them in spades— with James, when they were eight, with Bobby during freshman Sadie Hawkins, with Kurt, with her brother’s friend Clark—

The name burns still, four years later. Clark had been very nice to her face. She developed a bit of crush. She was twelve, it was normal. He accepted a Valentine from her written in glitter gel pen. He hugged her and called her cute. He’d kissed the top of her head. 

Too bad she heard the things he said about her behind her back less than an hour later.

–

Her parents leave for dinner at six sharp, and Sam arrives minutes later. Mercedes panics at the idea of them coming very close to meeting but tells herself there’s no use worrying about something that didn’t happen. Then she panics when she realizes she doesn’t have time to change out of her comfortable outfit of sweatpants and a worn-out Queen t-shirt. She doesn’t have any makeup on, and her hair is pulled back in a sparkly red headband she’s had since she was ten. Hideously embarrassing. But she’s already opening the door, excitement at seeing him overtaking everything else. For about three seconds. Until she actually sees him, and she realizes that even in the awful, cheap-looking work polo and khakis he wears, he looks good. And she must not. 

(To hear some boys at school she never looks good but that’s… that’s something that’s burned on her skin a little too deeply, honestly. She’s not Quinn Fabray, but she didn’t realize she had to be to be considered attractive. And maybe once she gets out of this damn town, she’ll find someone who agrees with her. For now, it’s enough to know it herself.)

“Nice shirt,” he says. She glances down at herself, like she hasn’t seen the shirt a million times before. She decorated it two or so years ago, coloring in the faded black logo with purple fabric paint and seed beads. She thinks it looks nice. And Sam’s tone didn’t _seem_ to be mocking.

“Thanks, but I’m gonna run upstairs and change into something more date appropriate,” she says unthinkingly. Internally, she winces. That was abrupt, wasn’t it? And silly. Abrupt and silly. She’s pretty sure her brother’s accused her of that before. (His friends accused her of worse, but she was twelve, why were they talking about her like she was a potential girlfriend anyway?) There’s butterflies in her stomach, not the sweet ones from last night, but the anxious ones.

“You look good.” Sam sounds earnest. “And I’m in the cheapest fabric known to man, according to Kurt, so I’m not one to talk about date appropriate.”

She laughs despite her nervousness. The butterflies start to flutter off. “Come in. Take your shoes off, please.”

Sam steps into the entryway and looks around curiously. There’s not much to see, only a side table for keys and mail, a shoe rack, and a vase of geraniums because her mother thinks flowers are a welcoming touch. As he bends to take his shoes off, he says, “I asked Mrs. Abbott if I could take some flowers from her garden, but she said she only has roses blooming and your mom’s allergic. She wasn’t sure if you were too.”

“I am. And this was supposed to be secret, remember?” She asked him for that when he called to confirm earlier. She’s not sure why she’s suddenly terrified that people will find out, but she is. Maybe it’s because people have their opinions, and when it comes to her, they usually aren’t nice. She’s too dark, too fat, too loud, too proud. She spent all of elementary school and most of middle school trying to make herself less, and it didn’t get her any more respect, so she figured if she wasn’t going to get respect anyway, she could at least be herself.

“I know.” Sam sounds slightly hurt or maybe she’s just projecting. He places his shoes carefully in the empty space and stands. “I told her I wanted to bring flowers for you and Rachel for going to prom with me.”

“Oh. Did you get roses for Rachel?”

“I’m picking them up on my way out. I’ll give them to my mom. She needs something to cheer her up.”

“Not to Rachel?”

“Haven’t you heard? Jesse _and_ Finn sent apology flowers.”

“Kurt called and told me about Finn. Jesse too?”

“Roses and tulips. Red,” Sam confirms. “Rachel called me to tell me she bought me a copy of the prom picture we took, and I wasn’t to argue with her. Finn sent _white_ roses. She told me all about it. I’ve never been so glad my work break is only ten minutes long.” He laughs nervously. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to ramble. I’ve never talked to Rachel for that long at once. I didn’t realize how long-winded she is.”

“It’s an experience.”

“I—I wanted to bring you something, but I couldn’t figure out what.” 

“It’s okay.” It’s nice to know he was thinking of her, though. “Come in.”

–

The kitchen is where they have family chats over dessert and whatever herbal tea her dad thinks will promote relaxation and get his kids to drink less soda. It’s a space for family, and she doesn’t feel like he belongs in there, so she takes him to the living room. He doesn’t quite belong in there either, but she can’t think of anywhere else to take him besides her bedroom, and that might give off the wrong impression especially if kissing happens. There’s the patio outside, but she’s not an outdoorsy person. It’s bad enough that her dad has weekly family-and-friends barbecues in the summer she has to attend. So the living room it is.

Sam was just here last night, sitting with her parents while he waited for her but she watches him when they enter, wonders what he thinks of the space. They have enough guests over that the living room is free from most personal things, which might be a good or bad thing depending. There’s photos of her and her brother on the mantelpiece in silver frames, the most current one being last Christmas where their parents insisted on matching family sweaters. The fireplace burns a fake fire in the winter and is home to candles in scents like lavender and jasmine the rest of the year. There’s her father’s record collection and the player her uncle bought him for his birthday, an electric one made of wood and patterned with carousel horses. A bookshelf—it’s mostly filled with theological texts and with mysteries, her mother’s pleasure and poetry, her father’s. The bottom shelf is a dedication to all the books she and her brother haven’t read in years. Some of them are even picture books. The rest of the room is decorated in soothing colors and motifs—a tabletop waterfall that lights up, dove gray furniture in soft materials, pale green walls and bright lemon yellow curtains, hand sewn by her grandmother when she was not much older than Mercedes. The coffee table has flowers on it, as always. This week it’s snapdragons in a rainbow. Around the flowers is an embroidered linen to put plates on when they entertain here. On the walls, there’s a mix of religious artwork and things like more waterfalls and flowers and even one of a preening black cat with sapphire eyes wearing a crown as it grooms—her parents give her different stories every time she asks how they came to own that. She suspects the real story is simple, that they were supporting a friend of a friend or something along that lines. It’s striking but it’s not really well-painted.

This is where her mother comforts her flock, holds meetings for the various charities and societies she’s part of her, where her parents greet dates and hold court. This room has always felt a little impersonal to her, and now she thinks she maybe understands why her brother always took his dates to his bedroom, even when their parents were home and would constantly look in on them. This room is a little too impersonal. Or maybe: this room has nothing of Mercedes in it. Or of her brother. Langston is not tranquil. She is subdued to survive. Strange that such restrained people had such passionate children. She has little in common with Langston, but neither of them are satisfied. They want everything they can get. Their grandmother calls them ungrateful, their grandfather calls them unfulfilled. Their grandfather is right. Mercedes is unfulfilled, all her hopes and dreams on hold until she gets to a better place. Her voice doesn’t get the respect it deserves here. She doesn’t get the solo, she doesn’t get the lead role, she doesn’t get the boy.

Except there’s a boy here right now, and he’s studying a picture of her on the mantle. She doesn’t know which one, doesn’t want to know.

“I’ll be right back.”

She goes to the kitchen and dresses and divides the salad, piles glasses and pitchers of water and lemonade on a tray. The task of hostess is one she can do in her sleep but the nerves are back now, making her feel unsure and out of place. She’s never really been on a date, and now she wonders what an appropriate topic is. Why are conversations so difficult when you want to impress someone?

But she can’t linger in the kitchen too long without suspicion so she steels herself and goes back out.

He’s still looking at the photos on the mantelpiece although he’s moved on to the most embarrassing one of her. Of course. “My first concert,” she explains as she sets the tray down. “I was six.” In it, she’s wearing the brightest yellow dress in existence, its brightness moderated with a pattern of blue flowers but still obnoxious to look at, all these years later. Her arms are open wide, she’s missing three teeth, and she’s wearing rainbow socks with her Mary Janes. Not her best fashion moment for sure. 

She tells him all about it—it was Christmas, and her parents were trying to get her into red or green, but she wanted this dress, threw a fit in the dressing room. She remembers it only vaguely, an impression of the past, but her parents tell this story every Christmas because they’re embarrassing like that. She was supposed to be wearing tights but she complained all over again. (She has a memory of them being too tight, pinching into her sides, leaving marks in her skin—she doesn’t say it, but it’s the first she distinctly remembers feeling out of place, sitting in the girls’ dressing rooms with the largest size they sold not fitting her at all). So rainbow toe socks it was, and everyone thought she was charming anyway.

“Of course they did,” he says like it’s obvious. He’s smiling again. 

“Anyway, I was amazing.”

“Of course you were.” His smile shifts to something softer and _intimate_. A ball of warmth ignites in her stomach, and she tries to ignore it before it affects her too much.

“Come eat,” she says, taking his hand and drawing him to her without thinking. But he comes willingly. And he doesn’t let go. His fingers tighten on hers when she starts to move away. So she steps closer. “Come eat,” she repeats, softer this time, and while pulling him with her. She settles him onto a chair and sits across from him. Any closer and she’ll lose her head. And she’s not the sort to lose her head.

She hands him a salad bowl and he thanks her quietly. Then there’s total silence while she pours out the lemonade. Sam compliments the food and drink, she thanks him, silence falls again. She feels awkward and dumb. It’s a conversation, just a conversation. She can have one of those. She has had them a million times before. But every time a topic enters her head, that nasty negative voice calls her an idiot. Finally, irritated with herself, she blurts out, “What counts as appropriate topics on a date?”

Sam laughs low. It vibrates in her chest. “I don’t know. I usually follow my girlfriend’s lead.”

“And I’m trying to follow _yours_.”

“I guess that’s why we’re sitting here in silence.” Luckily, he sounds amused. “Well—do you have any hobbies?”

“Do you?”

“I learned Na’vi.”

She doesn’t roll her eyes. Barely. By the way he’s grinning at her, he knows she wants to. She wonders when he came to know these things about her. How often does she roll her eyes? How often is he looking at her when she does? “Okay, well, I taught myself to sew when I was ten,” she tells him. Maybe he knows that since she usually helps making the girls’ dresses for competitions. The boys usually stick to their easily-bought dress shirts and slacks, though, so maybe he doesn’t.

“Why?”

She blinks. Thinks of herself crying in another dressing room, girls’ section clothes not fitting her, petites not fitting her, and awkward in adults’ clothes. She wonders what a better answer would be—but it’s not like Sam wouldn’t have noticed she’s overweight. “Because nothing ever fit me right,” she says, then brushes past his expression (he clearly has no idea what to say) and adds, “Besides, it guaranteed I was wearing something interesting. That was very important to me in middle school. I was trying to be cool. It didn’t work but I did make a great dress.” Setting her plate down, she goes over to the mantelpiece and picks up the picture she wants and hands it to him. Her, cheesing in front of the camera on the front porch, in a midnight blue dress with a full skirt topped with sheer gold lace, a plastic tiara colored gold in her hair. “I wore it my eighth grade dance. It took a month to make, ‘cause I kept messing up the ruffling, and sadly, I broke the tiara that night.”

“Very pretty.”

“I wanted to be a princess for a night.”

“You look like a princess.” He sets the photo down on the table carefully.

“What about you?”

“I’ve never wanted to look like a princess.”

She does roll her eyes this time. The smirk on his face makes her think he wanted that reaction. “Tell me something about you.”

“Um… I never rode a bike?”

“Was that a question?”

“No. I never rode a bike,” Sam repeats decisively. “My grandpa said it was because I was there when my cousin broke an arm and two ribs in an accident, but I don’t remember any of that. They tell me I threw a temper tantrum when my uncle tried to get me on one.”

“Are you close to your family?”

“On my dad’s side, yeah. We lived with my grandparents for a long time.”

It’s probably rude to outright ask if it was for financial reasons, so she asks, “Were they sick? My uncle and aunt live with my grandparents since they can’t get around easily.”

“No, they’re pretty spry. We didn’t—my dad comes from a pretty poor family, and he’s the only one of his siblings to go to college ‘cause my mom paid for it from an inheritance she got. I remember pieces of it. He finished his degree when I was four.”

“Does your mom not work?”

“From home. She’s a translator.”

“Oh? What does she speak?”

“German and French.”

“Does that not make money?”

Sam shrugs. “Only when there’s a project.”

Mercedes senses his discomfort so she changes the subject. “Do you speak either of those?”

“No. She tried teaching me French when I was little but then they realized I was dyslexic.” He rubs his hands over his jeans awkwardly. She doesn’t know if he’s feeling nervous too or if she's screwing up.. “How about you?” he asks.

“I take Mr. Schue’s Spanish class,” she says.

“So… you don’t speak Spanish very well then.”

She grins at him. “I thought you didn’t take him?”

“I switched classes after we lost our house. Mr. Schue always passes me. You’re not supposed to be able to travel for competitions if you’re failing.”

Not that anyone follows that rule at McKinley.

“Are you close to your family?” he asks. He’s finished the salad, fast enough that she suspects he hasn’t eaten since breakfast at the very least. Well, that answers her unasked questions about how mac and cheese fits into his strict diet: it doesn’t. He’s just too hungry to care.

“None of them live around here anymore,” she says absentmindedly, eyeing his empty bowl and trying to estimate how much time is left for the mac. “I used to visit my aunt and uncle every summer in Maine. I have a whole box full of seashells. But they moved to Portland a couple years ago, and I don’t see them much. On my dad’s side of the family is that aunt I told you about. She’s divorced and I always feel like she’s judging me.”

“Why?”

The timer goes off before she can formulate an answer. She excuses herself and rushes out. The truth: she spent six weeks with her aunt after her grandmother had a stroke and her parents went to help out. Langston made friends with some of the boys in the neighborhood immediately, but Mercedes, used to being alone by then, had simply stayed her room, finding small ways to keep herself busy in between the practice runs her vocal coach had given her. On day twelve, her aunt practically dragged out her of the house. They went for a walk. The walk lasted forever, it felt like, and the next day they did it all over again. Combined with how little her aunt fed her, she lost weight fast. She hadn’t thought much of it at the time, especially the food, since her aunt worked at a non-profit and didn’t have a lot of extra money to spend on two growing kids. And it wasn’t that bad, she wasn’t _starving_ or anything it just… wasn’t enough. And when you added in the walks…

Since then, Mercedes has learned her aunt has spent time in recovery for anorexia. And that she blamed her weight for not having a husband anymore. And that she blamed Mercedes’s weight for her not having a boyfriend. And the whole things makes Mercedes angry, miserable, and frustrated in turn. Every conversation with her aunt is a minefield, and someone always ends up crying, and nine times out of ten it’s her. Her aunt is too mature to burst into frustrated tears every single time they disagree on exactly how much exercise and food is too much and on whether or not they should even care.

And look, Mercedes gets it. She does. Really. People are awful and think you have to be a certain way, look a certain way, to be worthy of attention and respect. She bought into it for a long time, no matter what her mother tried to tell her. Hell, sometimes she still buys into it. 

It’s not like she hasn’t starved herself before, it’s not like she hasn’t tried to track calories or eat nothing but protein shakes and celery. It’s just not satisfying. And she can’t do it for very long. She likes food, even vegetables, although some people sneer at that like she can’t possibly be fat and eat healthy food at the same time. By now, she’s pretty good at tuning out the judgmental people, and she’s not inclined to pass out in front of the entire cafeteria again so she’s not gonna starve herself. Sometimes the temptation creeps up and she thinks about how much better it would be if she were skinny and people didn’t look askance at her mere existence, but at the end of the day, she doesn’t care enough about what people think and it’s easier to just eat some damn mac and cheese every once in a while.

Speaking of. She rushed through the prep, admittedly, but it smells delicious. She made a double batch with the hope there would be enough for him to take back with him. She knows the Evans’ are living on canned food and she’s hoping this would be a welcome change. 

She opts to serve them both instead of taking the entire tray to the living room. Instinct tells her Sam will eat it, because he asked for it, but that he won’t eat a lot if left to his own devices. She doesn’t know where this sudden instinct for him comes from. She hasn’t had many conversations with him, she tells herself. She doesn’t talk to him very often. The conversations they do have are limited.

But—

Glee meets everyday, sometimes twice a day. It’s an elective course this year _and_ an extracurricular. She spends time with him. She doesn’t focus on him usually, but they’ve agreed on a lot of stuff. He’s sat next to her before, talked possible songs with her, shared a textbook with her as they made their way through some mind-numbing history, listened to her complain about the way slavery was discussed, listened to her wonder out loud about how suggesting Billie Holiday to the club would go down. He’s danced with her, talked theology with her, sat down to lunch with her, hugged her. It’s not like they haven’t spent time together, even if she doesn’t consider those times conversations, even if other people they talked to more were hanging out with them too. She does know him in some ways. 

And he must know her in some ways too. This can’t be out of nowhere. Just because she caught a crush last night doesn’t mean he did too. Last night was just the first time she actually paid attention to his presence as anything more than Quinn’s boyfriend then Santana’s. He seemed pretty comfortable with her last night. And she was pretty comfortable with him too. She just hadn’t considered him before. 

Had he thought about her? Signs are pointing to yes, but Mercedes doesn’t want to jump the gun. She’s done that before. But—he’s been hanging around her more lately. He sits next to her more often these days. When did that start? He was still dating Santana until two weeks ago. She’s not sure how she feels about the overlap. But then maybe he was just hanging around her for other reasons? She doesn’t know what he’s even feeling so does it even matter when he decided to start spending more time with her? He’s here, he kissed her. Does it matter why? Sam’s honorable; he’s not the type to set out to deliberately hurt someone. He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t want to be. He wouldn’t be kissing her if he didn’t want to be. So he must want to spend time with her. 

_That’s it_ , she tells herself. _That’s all you need to know right now. Don’t talk yourself into turning him down before he’s even started._

She makes herself leave the kitchen.

–

She took long enough in the kitchen that Sam is carefully rifling through her father’s records when she comes back. When she enters, he replaces the records and comes back over. “We can play something, if you want,” she says.

“That’s okay. I wasn’t really looking. You—Are you okay? You were gone for a while.”

“I’m fine.”

He eyes her. She wonders what he sees—and if he can read what he sees.

“I’m fine,” she repeats. She thinks about lying, but she’s not that great of a liar and what’s the point? She wants to know. “Guess I was trying to figure out how this date came about.”

“Um. The usual way?” There’s something in his tone she can’t place but it isn’t positive.

She doesn’t answer immediately, handing him the bowl instead and waiting until they’re both sitting down again. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it badly. I just… I guess I never paid attention to you. And I didn’t realize if you were paying attention to me.”

“I was. I _am_.” Another tone she can’t place. She thinks it might be offense. Or hurt.

She doesn’t tell him that he’s the boy who is pretty enough to overcome an unfortunate tendency for dorkiness and that girls will still date him if he only showed them the slightest bit of interest. He doesn’t, he mostly sticks to the glee club, but he’s one of those people who can always make himself welcome no matter where he goes. Saying no is like kicking a puppy. So she doesn’t point out that she’s not the sort of girl guys like him go for—and to be honest, he’s not the sort of boy she typically crushes on either. But here they are. “I don’t mean it badly,” she repeats. “I like you. I just—I guess boys don’t usually pay much attention to me. And I mean—I liked _Kurt_ so maybe I don’t pay attention either.”

“Really? Kurt?”

“ _That’s_ what you took from that?” She laughs. “Kurt. Yeah. I just—he was my first real friend. So.”

“I thought you two only met last year?”

His gaze holds confusion, and she doesn’t want to see it morph into pity but she suspects it will. “We did.”

“Oh. Um.” There’s the pity now, coming on the tails of his awkward realization. “Didn’t you hang out with anyone?”

“Not really.”

“Um. Weren’t you lonely?”

“Sometimes.”

–

She was lonely, he’s right about that. She _is_ lonely. She’s been lonely all her life. It’s more a state of being than a fleeting feeling at this point. Even surrounded by people, she’s lonely. Even when her friends are paying attention to her, she’s lonely. She doesn’t know why anymore. She thought once she had friends it would be better. 

But the loneliness is woven into the very fabric of her soul. It was earned the hard way, with a thousand cuts only now remembered by the scars they left. She isn’t as smart as Langston, off studying to be a doctor now, she isn’t as pretty as her cousin Faith, she isn’t the sort of girl picked for a team in gym class, she isn’t the girl who knew how to flatter a guy or talk to a group of girls. She has never been anything but her voice. 

So she planned for the future instead. Planning for the future made her feel safe. When she was younger, it seemed like the future was all she had. She remembers the loneliness settling into her bones like lead, heavy and oppressive on even the lightest days. She didn’t have friends, and she didn’t have enemies. She just… existed. In a space no one ever looked. No one her age at least. Singing made her feel noticed and alive and during the worst days, it made her feel connected to something and not boxed off in the corner, a statue collecting dust.

And now she doesn’t know what to be when she’s not lonely. 

–

They slip back into conversation easily enough. They talk about their childhoods. Sam’s dad was one of six and grew up with parents only making minimum wage so there was never quite enough. His dad ended up dropping out of high school to work more—which is why Mr. Evans was so opposed to Sam’s suggestion that he do the same—and only eventually got his GED when he married Sam’s mom. Mrs. Evans came from a decently well-off family who she was no longer in contact with and received an inheritance (Sam gets decidedly less comfortable when he mentions this, so she doesn’t ask questions) so she paid for her husband’s college degree since she already finished hers. Then, with a better job, he was able to pay off his parents’ mortgage and buy a house for his own family, eventually. Sam grew up mostly watched by his older cousins, and there seemed to be a lot of love and laughter in his family. His grandfather taught him guitar as soon as he could start to wrap his fingers around the neck, and his cousin Rosie patiently sat with him after he was diagnosed with dyslexia and helped him figure out what worked for him so he could read more easily. One uncle taught him to fix a car and introduced him to Scooby-Doo, one aunt introduced him to Star Wars and comics. His grandmother taught him the basics of cooking. It was a happy family unit, clearly, but they didn’t have enough money to help Sam’s part of the family when his dad lost his job. His grandparents hadn’t accepted more than paying off their mortgage and neither had any of his father’s siblings and their spouses.

Mercedes, in turn, tells him about visiting her aunt and uncle in Maine every summer, learning to swim in the cold water, refusing to eat fresh lobster when she saw one still alive being submerged in boiling water. Everyday, she and Langston would eat clam chowder for lunch and ice cream as they walked home coated in sand and sticky with sweat and sunscreen. On the days they didn’t go the beach, they’d bike around town looking for the rare place they didn’t know (bars, usually). Later, when Langston got his license, they drove up and down the coast, visiting places like the Seashore Trolley Museum and the Rachel Carson National Wildlife Rescue and every lighthouse they could. They traveled to every beach, and Langston, who has a soft spot for photography, talked their parents into buying him a camera, and they took pictures of everything they saw. There’s a photo on the mantelpiece of the two of them, standing in front of a cove, the angle odd so Langston could take it and still be in the picture. They’re cheesing for the camera, Langston dressed in an oddly sailor-like outfit while she wears a floral bathing suit with a bright blue wrap. That summer had been the best, but they had already explored everything by the end, so the summer after, which turned out to be the last one, was spent trying every dish at every restaurant they came across and learning to boat. Neither of them were any good at it. By that point, she’d realized how lucky she was to have a big brother who didn’t mind spending his summers with her, so she hadn’t minded. (She still wasn’t about to tell him about the nasty things his friends had said about her one day while they waited for him but she doesn’t tell Sam that).

Before she’s aware of it, over an hour has passed, and she’s run back to the kitchen twice to refill their bowls. The lemonade is long gone, and she’s pleased he’s eaten a lot since she suspects he skips his meals when his family is low on food. 

“I have brownies from earlier,” she tells him when they pause in conversation so she can clean up. He insists on helping her. “Can I tempt you?”

“Always,” he says promptly, and she hopes he’s talking about the brownies.

–

Somewhere in between putting the dishes in the sink to soak and asking if he wants ice cream, she ends pressed up against the counter with his mouth on hers. He keeps the kisses light, and she’s grateful for that even as he moves down from her mouth to her throat. She doesn’t really know what to do but tilt her head back and let him press soft kisses to the part of her collarbone peeking out from her shirt’s stretched-out neckline. The gauzy warmth from last night is back, the film making everything feel bright and golden. Sam is warm against her, his hands hot where they lay splayed against her back, his legs strong where they’re braced around her. His mouth is tantalizing, and half of her is grateful that he’s staying to the parts of her already exposed and half of her is tempted to expose a little more skin.

Then his mouth is back on hers, teeth nipping on her bottom lip, encouraging her to deepen the kiss. She doesn’t, suddenly unsure, and he takes the hint, backing off. She’s enjoying the way he feels pressed against her, the way his mouth feels on hers. It’s surprisingly comfortable—for her, at least; his hands are keeping the counter from pressing into her back, and she’s not the one bending her head down at that angle, that can’t be comfortable for him—

Her phone rings. They both jerk and knock their heads together. Sam huffs a laugh but Mercedes doesn’t find any humor in it, embarrassment crawling up her spine as she rubs the sore spot on her forehead.

Sam rubs her back gently, and it’s both welcome and not. “Do you need some ice?” he asks, concern infusing his tone when she doesn’t stop rubbing her head.

“No, I’m fine. I need to check my phone.”

Her mom left a message, asking if she wants anything and telling her they’ll stop for ice cream before they come home. She breathes out a soft sigh of relief. Her dad takes forever in the ice cream parlor. He can never decide on a flavor, and he never wants to get two, even though that’s always what happens in the end. And the parlor is close to the restaurant, which is a twenty minute drive away. That means Mercedes has a good thirty more minutes. No longer than that because she needs time to wash the dishes and hide the evidence. No one can know Sam was here tonight.

Speaking of Sam, he’s rubbing her shoulders now. Her lingering embarrassment is easily overtaken by a veil of gossamer warmth. Everything is golden again, and she feels like she’s floating. His hands are big and calloused and seem to know just the right amount of pressure to make his impromptu massage feel like something she’s needed all year. “You okay?” he asks when she looks over her shoulder at him.

“Yeah. We have no more than half an hour though.”

“Plenty of time.” His voice is low, deep enough to rumble straight through her. Before she does something reckless, she moves away from him.

“We used to have an ice cream maker,” she tells him as she moves about the kitchen. “Langston insisted. He wanted to make all sorts of weird flavors like cayenne-cherry, but he never did. I tried to make fudge ice cream once, but it didn’t set. I just drank it out of a glass like a frozen hot chocolate.”

“Is that a thing?” Sam’s leaning against the counter, looking very at home and very pretty.

She jerks her attention back to her task. “Apparently.”

“How is something frozen and hot at the same time?”

She shrugs. “I guess we’ll see when we go to New York.” She risks a glance at him to see what his reaction is and grins to herself when she sees him smile to himself. “We’ll have to sneak away.”

“Won’t be that hard,” he says dismissively. He’s not wrong unfortunately. Mr. Schue isn’t great at watching them.

She hands him a bowl with a brownie topped with rocky road ice cream and whipped cream. He only hesitates a half a beat before he takes it. She doesn’t say anything. She knows this isn’t what he usually eats and that if he had enough money he wouldn’t be here eating it right now, but he’s also not rude enough to say no especially when he already said yes. (Had he said yes? She doesn’t know. Now that she thinks about it, he answered her question of ice cream by pressing her against the counter and kissing her. Whatever. He had a chance to say no.) She promises herself she’ll make him something different next time, but until then, she’s pretty sure he needs more calories than he’s eating. He hasn’t been eating lunch over the last couple weeks—really, they should’ve known something was wrong; Sam has taken to either rushing through homework or sleeping during lunch, neither of which he ever did before, but everyone just assumed he was stressed with finals coming around soon—and Mercedes thinks he’s not been eating breakfast either. Both Kurt and Quinn said Stevie and Stacy had mentioned they never saw Sam eating breakfast, even though he swears he did before they woke up. The kids didn’t understand, took their brother at his word; Kurt and Quinn both suspect he hasn’t been eating breakfast at all.

She doesn’t bother to take them back to the living room. She gestures for him to sit, and they eat in relative silence. Mercedes can’t form words anyway. She’s too busy feeling warm and fuzzy with his foot hooked with hers. She wonders if she’ll ever be able to sit down to dinner again without thinking about it.

When he’s done, he pushes his bowl back some and says, “Thanks for dinner. It was delicious.”

“You’re welcome,” she says automatically, still savoring her last bite of brownie.

“How long do we have, d’you think?” 

His gaze in on her mouth, she’s pretty sure. 

She eats the last bite as quickly as possible as she glances over to the clock. “Fifteen max but probably more like ten.” She takes the bowls to the sink and busies herself with rinsing them out. She wastes twenty two seconds but she needs that time to calm down. She isn’t surprised when she turns around and finds Sam standing just far enough behind her that he’s not in her space but close enough to touch. So she reaches out and takes his hand.

He doesn’t try to deepen the kiss this time so she just enjoys herself. Kissing always sounded gross to her growing up, but having his mouth on hers is the best thing she’s ever felt, even if she’s embarrassed by her lack of experience and the fact that he has to keep moving her head. Even though he does it gently and she likes the feeling of his hands on her, every time his fingers touch the side of her face, she feels a new wave of self-consciousness flow over her.

“I’ll get better at that,” she tells him when they break for breath.

He blinks at her.

“Kissing,” she adds. “I—you were only my second kiss. I just—felt like I was bad at it.”

“I enjoyed it,” he says, leaning his forehead against hers.

“Oh. Well. Good.” Her brain’s short-circuited. Pretty boys do that to her. Especially when they’re close enough that she can gaze directly into their green eyes. Especially when they’ve just finished kissing her. “We should—we don’t have much time, and if I get in trouble, you won’t be seeing me out of school ‘til the end of summer.”

Sam kisses her nose and steps back. “I can’t wait that long so I guess I’ll go.”

“Hold on. Let me give you the rest of the mac.” Before he can say no, she holds up her hand. “Don’t make me try to explain to my parents why half a tray of mac is missing. They’ll know I didn’t eat it all.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

She packs it as quickly as she can and doesn’t acknowledge his sudden awkwardness. He’ll have to get used to accepting help eventually. And she really doesn’t want to explain to her parents why half a tray is missing—or why she made a double batch. “I have some old board games, by the way,” she says as she works. “Langston and I practically collected them. Do you want some for the kids? I can bring them to school tomorrow.”

“If your brother won’t mind, I’d love them. We had to take Stacy out of gymnastics and she’s a brat when she doesn’t have something to focus on. She’s been quiet ‘cause she can feel the tension but she’s getting over it.”

She hands him the Tupperware. “And Stevie?”

“He’s always been pretty quiet. And he’s easily amused by anything on TV. Even infomercials. It’s kinda funny actually.”

“And you?”

“I have homework to keep me busy. Unfortunately. I miss learning basic addition.”

“Don’t tell me. I have a history essay due Wednesday I still haven’t started.”

“Are you gonna start it?”

“Tomorrow. Maybe. Let me walk you out.”

He slips back into his shoes. She watches his thigh muscles flex under his ever so slightly too small pants and when he stands, she can’t resist curling her fingers into the hem of his shirt and encouraging him closer. They kiss but she struggles to get into it, one eye on the hallway clock. Reluctantly, she loosens her hold on his shirt. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she murmurs against his mouth. She hesitates to lean in for another kiss, worried she might be too forward, worried her desire to keep him here longer, to keep watching the way his face lights up when he talks about the people and things he loves, will overtake her sense.

He leans down, brushing his mouth against her lightly. “I’m looking forward to a Monday now.”


	3. i like the way your eyes dance when you laugh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry about the lack of updates. Usually, it's because I can't write but in this case, this chapter has been done for weeks and it's just Windows refusing to stay connected to my wi-fi for any length of time that prevented me from posting. Title from I Love the Way You Love Me by John Michael Montgomery. Hope you enjoy!

The next day, Mercedes is sitting in the courtyard with the glee club during lunch, chatting general ideas about Nationals when Sam slips into the seat next to her. Underneath the table, his fingers brush hers. Back stiffening even, she glances around the table. But no one is paying them the slightest bit of attention. She lets herself tangle her fingers with his and waits for someone to say anything.

No one does. Not even when Sam suggests, “We should feature Mike and Brittany again,” and they both reach over to high five him, the entire table turning with them. No one reacts to him sitting next to her, shoulders brushing, him stealing the pickles off her tray. The only real surprise is that Sam isn’t doing homework or napping—Tina even asks him if he’s okay—and that gets swept under the rug with the barest of reassurances from him.

“You don’t have any lunch,” Mercedes whispers under her breath, moving her hand from his. He glances over at her in surprise but doesn’t try to take her hand again.

“I’m fine.”

Mercedes ignores him. He’s eating pickles for God’s sake. He doesn’t like pickles. After Regionals, they all went out to Burger King, and she distinctly remembers him removing the pickles before he ate it. He was still with Santana then; she doesn’t remember why she was watching him in the first place. She thinks he might have been sitting across from her and she couldn’t help but notice. “I’ll be right back,” she announces to the table.

“Where are you going?” Kurt asks.

“Sam’s trying to starve himself clearly.”

“I’m not—” he starts to say but is immediately cut off by Rachel’s tirade about keeping his strength up. By the time Mercedes gets back, the tirade has ended and they’re all moving on to debating the pros and cons for a featured dance. They don’t have a song yet, so Mercedes isn’t sure how anyone can decide on a dance yet, but that’s not her problem. Her problem is Sam right now. She drops the tray in front of him. The cafeteria didn’t have much left, just orange juice, some slop that looks like it might a green bean casserole, one last bowl of chicken soup, and carrots that she knows from experience will be barely cooked and unseasoned. Still, it’s better than nothing.

Sam murmurs his thanks and hooks his ankle with hers.

–

Tuesday, Santana brings leftover beef enchiladas and dismissively gives it to Sam with barely an “abuela made a bunch and I’m sick of it; it’ll go bad soon.”

Wednesday, Kurt packs lunches for him and Finn and they just magically happens to have an extra sandwich made with carved ham. (“I’m not bringing lunch meat into the house. My dad will eat it all and do you know how much salt is in that stuff?”)

And still, no one thinks anything of Sam sitting next to her everyday.

Thursday, another cool front blows in, and Rachel brings an extra bowl of lentil soup and a fruit salad. It’s Rachel, so she doesn’t bother to give an excuse, just sets the bowl in front of Sam.

Friday, Mike brings a soup made with pork dumplings and begs someone to take it so he can get pizza from the cafeteria. And, well, Sam’s the only one without lunch. Sam protests, but Puck just reaches across the table, takes the Tupperware from Mike, and sets it in front of Sam without pausing in his inane speech about why they shouldn’t do love songs.

–

Saturday: a babysitting date in the park. It’s just warm enough that Mercedes can wear a sundress, cherry red splashed with gold flowers. She’s only ever worn it once before, to a fundraiser her parents hosted last summer, and she thinks it’s nice enough for a date but not restrictive so she can run around the park if she has to. She likes the way it floats in the breeze, and it highlights all the best parts of her body. She knows it’s stupid to worry about how she looks but she wants to look nice. You’re supposed to look nice on dates. 

She packs a picnic hamper because Sam will try to pay for food later otherwise, swipes on mascara and lip gloss, and slides her feet into sandals. One last look in the mirror—and she doesn’t let herself focus on her hair, which is already frizzing up the humidity; it might rain this afternoon—and she’s out the door.

Last night, she had made her mother’s cherry chocolate muffins, muffin tin quiche, soft-boiled eggs, peanut butter and chocolate chip stuffed celery, fruit and cheese on blunted skewers, chicken salad sandwiches, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and two types of lemonade, regular for the kids, orange-mint for her and Sam. This morning, she stops by the store and picks up water bottles, travel-sized cups of cereal, individual cartons of milk, and two iced coffees. Some instinct, some knowledge of Sam gleaned from dozens of small moments of the year, makes her suspect that food is currently more than a little scarce. If she had more time (if Sam hadn’t called her at seven last night, telling her his siblings were going stir crazy, his parents were going to Columbus for the day and he wasn’t working since Sunday would max out his hours; would she like to hang out with them for a while?) she would have made more food. But it would be enough for the day, even if she wouldn’t leave him with as much as she’d like to. 

–

The park is pretty full, given it’s the first truly warm day in months, and it takes her a while to track them down. She finds them in the playground, Sam sitting in the old swings on the sides while Stacy swings from the monkey bars and Stevie and another boy sit on the seesaw. The playground’s had a makeover since she was a kid, but most of the old equipment remains. 

Stacy terrifies Mercedes by waving to her with one hand while the other holds onto the highest rung of the monkey bars. Mercedes quickly waves back, relieved when Stacy grabs at the bar with both hands. She’s run enough day camps for kids over the years to be fearful of the injuries that can happen. She wasn’t a monkey bar swinger in her childhood days, but she can name about two dozen people who have fallen off them before. Concussions happen frequently, broken bones are in second place, and she’s taken several kids to the emergency room for stitches. Not only does it frighten her, she would really hate seeing the Evans family in even more straitened circumstances. Hospital bills aren’t cheap.

She settles onto the swing next to Sam and offers him a very sweet smile at his suspicious glance at the wicker picnic basket. For a moment, he forgets to be suspicious and grins happily. “Thanks for coming. You look amazing.”

She blushes at the compliment. “Wouldn’t miss it,” she says breezily, as if she doesn’t have two essays due next week that she hasn’t even started on. And the take home quiz. And the history worksheets. And the translation project for French class. There were more important things to do with her weekend, but somehow Sam’s too-casual-to-be-truly-casual question eclipsed all of that.

She’ll work twice as hard tomorrow. At least she’ll have a good excuse to miss the post-church brunch at Mrs. Owens’ house. If she tries to set Mercedes up with her son again…

She wants to scream just thinking about it.

“I brought some food. I thought it would nice to have a picnic.” She takes out a chocolate cherry muffin and lays it on one of the lilac gingham napkins. She’d baked with it extra cherries and dipped the tops in melted chocolate and luster dust leftover from Christmas cookie decorating. Decadent treats aren’t usually in Sam’s wheelhouse, but he probably needs the calories so she tried to make it look enticing. The gold luster is probably a little over the top, but she thought it might make it special enough for him and put the luster to good use since her mother always forgets and buys new ones every year. When he takes it, she pulls out the coffee and hands one to him then busies herself with collecting the same meal for herself. When she looks up again, he’s eaten half the muffin. “Didn’t have time to eat this morning?”

He swallows as he looks over at her. “I think everyone’s noticed food’s been a little low this week.”

“We did.” Tina was planning on baking a lasagna and a breakfast casserole for them tonight, but she doesn’t tell him that, doesn’t give him the chance to turn it down. “Did you not eat at all though?”

“I went for a run this morning. I needed—” He hesitates, knuckles whitening as he grips onto the chain. “It’s been a little stressful. I needed to breathe. I got back and made breakfast but it wasn’t enough. Mom and dad don’t have money for lunch in Columbus, and they wouldn’t eat until I ate, so I told them I already ate when they got up.”

She doesn’t know how to respond. “I have muffin tin quiche and boiled eggs,” she says as normally as possible, ignoring the twinges of sympathy and helplessness as neither would be helpful. “If you’re in the mood for more breakfast-y things. But I also have some chicken salad sandwiches. I figured we’d be out for a while and it’d be worth it not to have to leave.” There’s an overpriced deli at the edge of the park that serves uninspired sandwiches and floppy fries but the best milkshakes she’s ever had, but she doesn’t want to go there and she doubts he would want to either if he’s seen the menu. “My mom always buys new groceries every Saturday anyway,” she continues. “It used to be up to Langston and me to do whatever we wanted with the rest. Saturdays were always like that—we did our own cooking and cleaning. That’s how we learned how to fend for ourselves. Mom was always worried Langston would be like our cousin Cam. He brings piles of dirty laundry home every break instead of learning how to use a washing machine.” All of that is true, technically, it’s just not why she prepared so much food and with her parents’ blessing and help. Her parents are involved in all sorts of charities; they had no problem offering her some money and time to help out a friend in need. (They might have been as sanguine about it if they knew Sam is kissing her behind their backs, but they didn’t know. Yet. She’d have to tell them eventually).

There’s a long pause after she finishes speaking then Sam says, “Thanks,” so quietly she can barely hear him. She doesn’t know if it’s ‘thanks for sparing my pride’ or just ‘thanks for the food.’

Nervous now for reasons she can’t put into words, she adds, “The quiche have vegetables in them. Cauliflower, carrots, golden beets—it’s how my dad got us to eat vegetables when we were kids. That combination makes the eggs look nice and yellow. And I put in some leftover ham and carrots. Quinn told me Stevie and Stacy like them.”

“Thanks,” he says again, louder and easier. “We were in the middle of trying to convince them to eat mushrooms when—They also won’t eat onions anymore. They used to.”

“Do you want something to eat?”

“Please,” he says calmly, although his fingers are tight and colorless against the chain. She doesn’t want this to cost him anything, but it clearly does, so she says nothing as she takes out a paper plate and puts on two mini quiche, two stuffed celery sticks, and two fruit-cheese skewers. He grins at her as he takes it. “I’m gonna take you on a real date, I promise.”

“This is good, I don’t need anything else,” she tells him. She already knows he won’t listen to her, even though it’s true.

–

Sam challenges Mercedes to a swinging competition. These old swings don’t go super high or anything, but it fills fifteen minutes of time. When she was younger, she hated swings, but now it’s fun to act like a little kid for a while, even her skirt makes her a little self-conscious when she goes up.

When she was really little, they used to swing so much that the chains wrapped around the top bar, but that seems dangerous now that she’s older. She calls a stop to it when they get close to that, and Sam agrees to a draw for the competition with his typical good-nature. 

When they stop swinging, they make some idle chatter about music. Which amounts to Sam telling her all about country music while she talks about jazz, which her father plays obsessively. Mercedes isn’t sure she’s a jazz kind of girl, but Sam is complimentary when she sings some. Very complimentary. It makes her blush, actually, even though the praise is nice. Spending the last two years being held up to Rachel Berry and being found lacking has caused a lot more moments of insecurity than she wants to admit. She’s good. She knows she’s good. Other people know she’s good. But not Mr. Schue and not the rest of the glee club. Not when Rachel is there. Even though Rachel does Broadway and she does not, not usually. Can you even compare two different styles like that?

But she doesn’t want to dwell on upsetting things, so she refocuses on Sam and his very passionate, long-winded explanation of why old school country was just not that great. She doesn’t know what he’s talking about, and she frankly doesn’t give a damn, but his entire face is lit up. It’s good to see him lit up with energy, not quiet and tired and stressed. 

Before she knows it’s noon, and Sam’s trying to wrangle the kids. Mercedes takes Stacy to the bathroom while Sam does the same with Stevie, and they meet up in a clearing meant for day camping. Stevie is easily placated with chocolate milk, yawning hugely before settling very calmly into a sleeping bag that Sam brought with him (that he borrowed from Tina) and curling up, but Stacy refuses for several long, loud minutes before Sam calms her down with a song Mercedes doesn’t recognize. Sam sounds mildly irritated the entire time, but his sister is either ignoring that or doesn’t notice. By the time she’s settled, Sam’s knuckles are white from the death grip he has the park bench he’s sitting on.

Sam’s been stressed lately, Mercedes knows that, but the white-knuckled grip and grinding teeth aren’t the usual things she’s seen over the last few weeks. “This is hard on you, huh?” she says as casually as she can, trying to invite his confidence without pushing. She sinks down next to him, folding her fingers over his.

“It’s harder on my parents.”

“It can be hard on them and on you.”

“I guess.” He drags the toe of one shoe—one of Puck’s, she thinks—through the dirt. “I’ve always been more a third parent than an older brother anyway.”

“But you’re not a parent,” she guesses since his comment feels unfinished.

“No. I’m not.” He scuffs at the dirt for several long, strained seconds before speaking again. “Before this, spending time with them didn’t seem so exhausting.” Another pause. “I made them dinner sometimes but mostly my interactions with them were playtime or bedtime or bath time. It was fun for the most part. Well, not bath time—they’d live in mud if we let them. But the rest. It was easier. I was kind of half big brother, half the responsible party. Now it feels like I’m the only one doing any parenting. No, that’s unfair. Mom and dad try but they’re looking for jobs anywhere. When I’m not with the kids, I’m doing homework or at the pizza place. I never want to see pizza again.”

“Is that why you went running?”

“Yeah. I needed a breather. It felt good. It’s been a while.”

“I’m glad.”

“What do you do to relax?”

Mercedes shrugs. “Singing’s usually pretty relaxing for me. I knit and sew. Tuning out and focusing on something else is usually relaxing enough for me.”

He nods. “I used to draw. I found my old sketchbook. I’m pretty sure it used to be relaxing before I fell outta practice.”

This leads to Mercedes telling him all about the galleries and museums Langston, hopelessly in love with photography, dragged her to when he still lived in Ohio. A tour guide or Langston himself would wax poetic about composition and meaning and all that, and Mercedes would stare at a painting, think  
 _that looks nice_ or sometimes _can we please move on from this?_ She never understood how you could understand anger from the brushstrokes or how you could infer the artist’s mental state from the colors used. To her, it was either nice to look at or not, and that was the end of that. The history behind it could be fascinating, and the composition of the paints and techniques used could be educational, but the actual work was judged solely on whether or not she liked to look at it.

Sam laughs when she tells him that and admits he feels the same way, which is why he never did particularly well in art classes.

“Ever thought of taking an art class here? It’s less intense,” she asks.

“Doesn’t that creepy Russian guy teach it?”

“He’s not Russian. His family has lived here for generations, and he’s never even been to Russia. He’s just a communist.”

“Oh, well, that makes it better.”

“Sarcasm doesn’t sound good on you.”

Sam pouts.

“Art classes?” she repeats, nudging his shoulder.

“Not with the fake Russian communist.”

“He’s a real communist.”

Sam huffs a laugh. “Maybe next year. If I go back to school.”

The thought of him not being next to her next year is unexpectedly painful. “Won’t they make you?”

“It depends. Even they have to admit that we need money. I can’t work that much over the summer if I have to watch my brother and sister.”

“There’s a summer camp,” she tells him. “Langston and I were never the type, so we only went once. It only lasts six weeks, but they teach archery, canoeing, and sword-fighting. There’s swimming competitions and survival classes and all sorts of outdoorsy things.”

The side of his mouth quirks up at her obvious disgust, but all he says is, “Survival classes?”

“That’s what they call them. Recognizing poisonous plants, foraging for food, that sort of thing. Not that they let the kids go to any wild areas for them to eat anything poisonous. That entire area is carefully farmed. They might like it,” she adds, indicating to his siblings. “I know you hate to hear this, but you’re a low-income family. It probably won’t cost anything. They can be day kids or have the full camp experience, and the camp’s grants will cover the cost.” She gives this spiel multiple times a day in the lead up to summer. Her parents have made her the go-to spokesperson in fact. This is a small town, and a lot of people here work minimum wage. Teenagers get jobs as soon as they turn sixteen—or if their parents are pillars of the community like hers are, they do charity work like her instead. The younger kids have to be watched somehow, and while Mercedes doesn’t usually mind babysitting in a pinch, she’s not that interested in spending all day with kids. The older ones don’t respect her since she’s not much older than them, and she doesn’t like babies that much. Four to ten is a great age range but she really never gets those kids.

So the camp is a great solution for everyone involved. The little ones can have an immersive experience and make friends, and the adults can rest assured that they can work when they need to without worrying about making arrangements when all their family and friends are in the same boat. And that spiel works every time.

Almost every time. Sam doesn’t look convinced, but he says he’ll tell his parents.

–

When the kids are fast asleep, Sam tangles his fingers with hers and leans close. She can’t help but nuzzle into him. (There’s no one else around them anyway; the sun is high and most people have gone to find lunch or air conditioning). He makes a tiny noise she can’t interpret and wraps his arms around her shoulders. She really wants to kiss him, but the kids might see and Kurt and Quinn still babysit. It’s her own damn fault. She wanted to hide this until the end of the school when they didn’t see their friends everyday and there was less potential for drama. But she didn’t realize how many places she couldn’t kiss him if she wanted to hide it. She’s going to have to tell her parents soon just so she can take him up to her room without any questions. The thought of kissing on a bed is terrifying but she can’t be in the living room or kitchen and kiss him, and kissing on the back porch in the summer sun only sounds romantic. In reality there will tons of mosquitoes for certain. The wood needs refinishing so she can expect splinters and general discomfort. And there probably won’t be a comfortable place to sit either. Some summers her dad strings up a hammock he always intends to use and never does. That sounds nice and romantic—at least until she remembers that there’s so little space there and they’d have to be pressed up against each other.

Sam brushes his mouth against her temple, and suddenly she thinks being pressed up against him is the best idea she’s had all year.

They find a quiet spot behind a tree, out of view of the kids should they wake. Mercedes intends some light kissing, but Sam clearly has other ideas, and she’s not finding any reason to object. She lets him deepen the kiss, and she doesn’t feel quite as embarrassed when his fingers tilt her face with a feather-light touch. It happens less often the longer they kiss, and his hands are warm and calloused in all the right ways. 

Okay. Well. His hands are actually too hot, sticky with sweat, and the callouses chafe at her skin after a few moments. The longer they kiss, though, the less she cares. It feels so good. She thinks she could do this for hours, his arm curling her into him as she fists his shirt, lifting it high enough that his skin peeks through. Every once in a while, she’ll brush the exposed the skin because she can. Eventually, she ends up tugging the shirt up, and he obligingly takes his shirt off entirely. It means a break in the kiss, which she’s kind of disappointed about. But the sight of him shirtless makes everything better.

Maybe she shouldn’t feel comfortable touching him that much on bare skin but she wraps her arms around him, feeling his back muscles tense as he pulls her closer and kisses her again. Her hands slide up his back, thumbs chafing at him. 

She loses track of how long they kiss. When they finally break apart, her mouth hurts, her lips are chapped, and she’s struggling to breathe. She tries to step away, but his arms are still tight around her. It’s a little stifling to be so close to someone in this heat, but she’s not inclined to move away, so she lays her head on his shoulder. (It’s too hot for that too.)

“So,” she says eventually, lifting her head off his shoulder. “Hello.”

His laugh vibrates in her chest. “Hi.”

“We should probably—”

“Yeah.”

Neither of them move.

Until Sam moves to kiss her again at least.

“No one told me making out hurts your mouth,” she says when they break apart again.

Sam fishes in his pocket and comes out with a tube of chapstick that he hands to her. “It’s worth it.”

“It is,” she agrees, hesitating for a moment before taking it from him. It’s a little weird to use someone else’s lip product, but then again, he just had his tongue in her mouth. The balm soothes a little on contact but it still hurts. She hands it back to him and moves away to find water for her dry mouth. Sam follows her back to the picnic basket, not bothering to put his shirt back on. She thinks about touching him but nerves have her stomach prickling. Instead, she pours out the last of the lemonade and gulps her cup down while he sips at his. She watches his throat work as he swallows and a flush of heat threatens her.

“I should have brought homework,” she says nonsensically, trying to think of anything but his muscles glistening with sweat. It’s really working for her. She thinks about licking his collarbone and, totally embarrassed, steps away hastily.

“I probably should’ve too,” he says, not bothering to mention the total non sequitur. “Not that it matters if I pass.”

“It does.”

“Probably, but that’s not my priority right now.”

–

They eat lunch with the kids when they wake then Stacy leads them to the gravel track around the park. Mercedes and Sam sit at a wooden table in the middle of it while watching the kids race around the track. Mercedes takes the fruit and cheese off the skewers and dumps them on a paper plate. The kids hadn’t touched the skewers at all, so she and Sam nibble on them as they talk about what pops into their heads, interrupted every once in a while by Sam yelling a warning to his siblings.

It’s decidedly comfy. Mercedes isn’t used to feeling at home with people. It takes years, and for the longest time, she only really felt comfortable with her family and a few close friends of her family. All adults, all who treated her like she was still five years old. She’s more comfortable with the glee club than she ever thought possible, but she still tends to dissemble. She’ll bite her tongue more often than not, and often she doesn’t say what she’s thinking at all. Some part of her still isn’t used to having friends and the fear that they’ll leave if she says what she wants to is always present. But Sam is easy to talk to, and she isn’t guarding her tongue as much as she always does. The longer they talk, the less guarded she becomes, until she’s not watching herself at all. She says every mocking barb and sarcastic aside that comes into her head, especially when he starts on _Avatar_. He has a book on it apparently. Mercedes didn’t even know they made a book on it.

In turn she tells him about _The Brother From Another Planet_. Her aunt introduced her to it, and Mercedes watched it twice a year when she was little. There’s also an old movie from the forties that her grandfather owned on VHS that he transferred to digital last year finally. She tells Sam to come over one day and they’ll watch them. They’ve got to be better than _Avatar_ , of all things.

Which leads to a deep-dive discussion on all things science fiction. She usually tries to hide this side of her, having never found anyone who understood. She doesn’t get superheroes and comic books and blue aliens, but the idea of sci-fi is endlessly fascinating to her, and talking to Sam about it is endlessly entertaining. They disagree as often as they agree. He has awful opinions on _Alien_. He thinks she has awful opinions on _Star Wars_. (She thinks the mere fact that he’s holding up _Star Wars_ as the height of sci-fi is an awful opinion to start with but he has more awful ones. And, okay, he doesn’t _say_ it’s his favorite sci-fi movie—that would probably be _Avatar_ anyway—but he certainly has a lot of opinions on it. A _lot_. Hers fall along the lines of: it only sounded good. She remembers hearing the whole story from someone once and thinking it sounded great only to watch it and be turned off by the questionable acting and awkward chemistry.)

They spend so long talking about it, and they’re talking about so passionately that they don’t even realize how late it is until Stevie and Stacy wander over, finally tired, and poke at the picnic basket. Mercedes automatically hands them peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and chocolate milk. They settle in docilely on either side of Sam and eat quietly while she and Sam wind down a conversation about the pros and cons of _Star Trek_ being so popular. While they discuss whether or not _Terra Nova_ might be a good show, Sam packs up his siblings with the ease of long practice, putting the backpack on like he’s going to school and picking them both up so they’re slung over his shoulders. Mercedes shoves everything back into the picnic basket and insists on driving them home.

The hotel room is cool and quiet, and the kids are easily talked into a bath. While Sam helps them, Mercedes fills the fridge with the rest of the food except for two chicken salad sandwiches and a couple bags of chips she had stuffed in her car. She leaves them in the picnic basket for after the kids are tucked in.

When Sam has tucked the kids in, he reads them a bedtime story. He does all the voices, and Mercedes finds herself smiling fondly at him, grateful he doesn’t look over at her to see it. Then they’re fast asleep, and he joins Mercedes at the kitchenette table. She sets out the food and shoves half of it to him. He looks like he might argue for a moment. Instead, he rises and fills two plastic cups with water. “Thanks for the food. You didn’t have to do that,” he says. 

“I wanted to,” she tells him. “You wanna starve yourself with your stubborn pride, that’s your problem. It’s not in my nature.”

“We used to have money.” He shrugs. “I was the one who had the extra money when it was needed. It’s not—it’s a pride thing, I guess. But I’m still not used to it.”

She pushes the food to him again. “You’ll get used to it.”

“I was kind of hoping I wouldn’t have to.”

“Hope is good. But hasn’t it been a while?”

Sam hesitates. “Yeah,” he says finally, tone heavy with misery. “I probably should’ve lost hope around the time we had to move into the hotel.”

“You shouldn’t lose hope at all.”

–

He says goodnight to her on the edge of the parking lot, hidden from view by a tree. The goodnight is long and lingering, his mouth hot against her. He was smiling before he kissed her, which she was grateful about. She hated seeing him dejected, and she loves making him smile. He curls his arm around her and tugs her closer, and she smiles into the kiss. It makes it hard to keep kissing, so they have to pull apart. She buries her head in his shoulder, grinning wildly and out of breath. “I should go.”

“You should,” Sam agrees, even as he nudges her face so she tilts her head up. He recaptures her mouth and everything is feeling very pleasantly sun-drenched and golden, even in the barely lit night.

When they pause to breathe, she steps back reluctantly, out of his arms so she’s just holding his hands. “I really should go,” she says again. “And I’ll have to tell my parents,” she adds reluctantly.

Sam makes a noise, half-agreement, half-worry. She stands on her tiptoes and kisses his nose just to see him laugh in surprise. “They already liked you,” she says. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll talk to them tomorrow, and I’ll let you know.”

He nods and kisses her again, this time a real goodnight, soft and gentle. She’s still smiling when she gets home.


End file.
